


A Christmas Quartet

by Narya_Flame



Series: Bluebirds [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bittersweet, Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Inspired by Fanfiction, London, Male-Female Friendship, Modern Era, Post-Canon, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 13:30:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21300236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: Four moments in the lives of Claire and Gil, after the decision they make at the end ofBluebirds.
Relationships: Ereinion Gil-galad & Original Female Character
Series: Bluebirds [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2002360
Comments: 18
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bluebirds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20938430) by [Narya_Flame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame). 

_December 2013_

The flat was perfect. 

Polished wooden floorboards stretched the length of the living room. Sleek leather sofas surrounded a glass-topped coffee table, while fluffy, colourful rugs lent an air of homespun cosiness. At the far end of the room was a folding table, currently sized for two – but it would easily seat eight when expanded. Upstairs were two double rooms, with a king-sized bed and a large wardrobe and desk in each; sliding glass windows opened onto a south-facing balcony; even the kitchen was a decent size. Soft gold light poured in through the windows, soaking gently into the whitewashed walls, and the air smelled of vanilla and fresh paint and spices.

Gil tilted his head. “What do you think?”

“I love it.” Claire turned on the spot, taking in the living room from every angle. “What do _you_ think?”

“It's near the Opera House, it's bright, it's clean – and either of those bedrooms would be big enough for a _barre._” Gil smiled, his blue eyes glowing. “I think we'd be mad to say no.”

“Me too.” She wandered out onto the balcony again. It was sheltered from the wind; with the midday sun burning through the cloud, it was warm enough not to need a coat, even in early December. “If I'm honest, it feels too good to be true. This place should be much more expensive than it is.”

He shrugged. “The estate agent has a good reputation, there's a proper contract – what more do you want?”

“I don't know.” Claire shivered. Not from cold, or even from doubt or foreboding – not precisely. “I just have the feeling I'm missing something. The landlord doesn't even want to see proof of income; that _is_ weird.”

“But helpful.”

“Don't remind me.” She managed a smile, but felt the familiar twinge of guilt over the complications her resignation was creating. 

Gil joined her outside and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Hey. It's OK. We have a solution.”

“I know, but the lawyer in me doesn't quite trust it.”

He drew her close and rubbed her back, carefully teasing out the knots in her muscles. “Then try to stop being a lawyer – at least for a few minutes, while we sign the paperwork.”

In the courtyard below, tourists and locals hurried back and forth, their breath clouding around them as their heels clicked against sharp, smooth stone. Claire sighed, relaxing into the warmth of the sun and the gentle kneading of Gil's fingers. She inhaled the smoky green scent of the fir tree in the middle of the square, and smiled at the light striking silver and red against the baubles that hung from its branches. “OK. You win. Let's go do this.”


	2. Chapter 2

They moved in two weeks later, just in time for Christmas. Unpacking didn't take long; neither of them had many belongings with them in London, and the flat was already furnished. They agreed to go shopping for a small tree the next day, and to buy the decorations from the Royal Opera House gift shop, taking advantage of Claire's new staff discount.

“My mother' going to hit the roof,” she giggled, stretching out on one of the sofas with a glass of wine in her hand. “'What do you mean, you're working in a _shop?_'”

Gil smiled. “And living with a dancer as well. The _shame_ of it...” The smile became a grimace. “Not that I'm doing any dancing right now."

Claire hadn't repeated the exact words her mother had uttered when she broke the news about her new flatmate, but Gil was far from stupid. Darrell had nothing against the arts – she herself worked in an art gallery – but she'd questioned the stability of Gil's income and his prospects following his injury, and she certainly wasn't keen for her daughter to go back to living in a houseshare “like a down-and-out student.” Their new place near Covent Garden was far, far nicer than the flat Claire had rented in Holborn, but that didn't seem to matter. “God. I'm sorry.”

“Mothers.” Gil shrugged one shoulder and returned his eyes to the computer screen, a furrow between his brows. “I get it.”

Claire bit her lip, knowing he wasn't on good terms with his own mother. That couldn't be easy, especially at this time of year. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“Nothing.”

“Must be a pretty interesting sort of nothing, to keep you occupied for two hours.”

He laughed softly, closed the laptop lid, and unfolded his long limbs. “I'm sorry. I should have offered to help with dinner – do you need me to do anything, or...?”

“No. I didn't mean that.” She gave an apologetic smile. “I shouldn't be so nosy.”

“It's no huge secret.” He poured himself another glass of wine, then held the bottle out to her. “I was looking for your mysterious musical stranger.”

Claire paused halfway through pouring. She hadn't expected that. “Oh.”

“I thought it might be easy - Iceland doesn't have a huge population, and it isn't a common name - but I didn't find anything.” His cheeks turned a delicate shade of pink. “You don't mind, do you?”

“Of course not.” Claire thought of the silver eyes, and the laugh like the sound of a breaking wave, and wondered what had happened to keep him away. _He probably just wasn't interested, and had better things to do._ “Thank you for trying.”

“I did get you a housewarming gift, though.” 

“Gil!” She threw a cushion at him, which he caught and pretended to hide behind. “We said we weren't going to!”

“I know – but it's only small.” He tossed the cushion back at her. “Wait here a moment.”

He disappeared upstairs; while he was gone, Claire snapped a few photographs of their new place on her phone, and sent them through to Harrison. His response was almost immediate.

_It's huge!_

Then, a few seconds afterwards:

_Er. You know what I mean._

She laughed. _You should come and stay. What are you doing on New Year's Eve? Xx_

_Luc and I were going to meet Rosie and Theo in Edinburgh. London could work though, if you don't mind having a houseful? Xx_

She heard Gil's light, graceful tread on the steps. _Let me check. Xx_

“OK.” Gil sauntered back into the room, something concealed behind his back. “I didn't wrap it – mostly because we have no wrapping paper – but still.” He held out a long, thin box made of sturdy cream cardboard, stamped in gold with the words CANTERBURY FUDGE KITCHEN. “Happy housewarming.”

Claire gasped. “_Gil!_ You remembered!”

“Of course I did,” he grinned. “We never got chance to go back while we were actually there, but luckily they have an online shop.”

“Oh...thank you.” Inside the box were half a dozen slabs of fudge in deliciously tempting shades of caramel, biscotti, chocolate – and lilac. “What's this one?”

“Blueberry.” He sat down next to her, still smiling. “I had to get at least one weird flavour.”

“Of course.” She put the box down on the coffee table, then threw her arms around him. “That's so lovely. I feel awful now, I didn't get anything for you!”

He rested his chin on top of her head. “You gave me a way out of that little room on Chalton Street. That's more than enough.”


	3. Chapter 3

She'd grown used to nightmares in her time as a lawyer, but the strange, vivid dreams that had stalked her sleep since Canterbury didn't quite suit that word. She saw visions of a war-torn world, heard the clatter and cry of battle, felt the sticky heat of blood on her skin – and yet there was no fear or dread in any of it. Watching, remembering, she felt nothing but sorrow, and regret, and the loneliness of eternity.

A voice like dark silk. _“You dream of the forgotten.”_

Violet eyes...betrayal...a loss to shatter worlds...

Claire woke with a yelp. She stifled it with the corner of the duvet, and took a few deep breaths. For a moment, she fancied that the smell of sandalwood lingered in the air – and then it was gone, replaced by the scent of fresh cotton sheets, and the faint tang of paint that still clung to the walls of her room.

The soft crackle of television dialogue drifted up the stairs. Clearly, Gil was awake too.

She pulled on her dressing gown and padded down to the living room. Her flatmate was sprawled on one of the sofas, wearing plaid pyjamas and a soft grey cotton sweater. On the screen at the far end of the room, a scarecrow performed a wild, clumsy jig on a yellow brick road by a corn field, and a girl in a blue gingham dress applauded enthusiastically.

_“Wonderful! Why, if our scarecrow back in Kansas could do that, the crows'd be scared to pieces!”_

Gil smiled at her as she curled up on the other sofa. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

_“Where's Kansas?”_

_“That's where I live. And I want to get back there so badly I'm going all the way to the Emerald City to get the Wizard of Oz to help me...”_

Claire picked up a cushion and cuddled it close. “You couldn't sleep either?”

“I had the nightmare again.” A shadow flitted across his face. “The one I never remember properly.”

She nodded. “I was dreaming too. Something about a battle.” _A battle that never ends..._ “Do you want anything? Water, or biscuits, or...?”

“I'm OK.”

She looked him over, remembering the state he'd been in when he had the same dream in Canterbury. “Sure?”

“Yeah.” He tilted his head. “You?”

Her right palm prickled along the line of her scar. “I'll be fine.”


	4. Chapter 4

You had to be a special kind of stupid, Claire thought, to leave your present-buying until Christmas Eve.

The Royal Opera House gift shop was heaving – and far too hot under the sharp white spotlights. Tourists milled about in gangways while parents tugged tired, grizzly children around by the wrist, steering them away from anything delicate or expensive. Claire had smiled so much that day that her jaw was aching, but she continued to fold silk scarves neatly in tissue paper, help elderly ladies choose between rose or lavender soap, and clamber up and down stepladders over and over again, because little Felicity couldn't decide if she wanted a pink teddy or a silver cat. All the while she maintained an air of utter serenity.

_Those years in Brick Court were good for something after all._

Every so often a cold draught would hiss through from outside; when this happened Claire turned her head and inhaled gratefully as its bitterness cut through the thick, sweet scent of glossy books and flowery perfumes. The centrally heated air was somehow heavy, cocooning her limbs like the woollen blankets stacked on the display shelves. At least the music was pleasant, she thought as she rearranged the display of necklaces – a gently festive mixture of Bach, Delibes and Tchaikovsky drifted through the store, rather than the incessant renditions of 'All I Want For Christmas Is You' that had followed her around Westfield last week.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” said a familiar, teasing voice in her ear. “Are you busy?”

“Gil!” She turned around, laughing. Normally she'd greet him with a hug, but not when she was meant to be at work. “What are you doing here?”

“I came in to see my physio; he had a slot free, he wanted to get in one more session before Christmas.”

The blood from her next heartbeat pumped cold. “And?”

“It went well; he says I've made good progress. It isn't all the way there yet, but...” A smile spread over his lovely features. “Claire, I'm going to dance again.”

Claire shrieked and flung herself into his arms. “Oh, Gil...oh, God, that's fantastic news...”

“I know, right?” He picked her up and swung her around; nearby, customers were giving them curious glances, but at the moment she didn't care. “I almost fell over when he told me, I couldn't believe it...” Laughter and tears shook his voice as he set her back on her feet. “I can't train yet, not for another month or two, but it's going to happen.”

“I'm so happy for you.” She took his hands in hers and linked their fingers together, feeling the tell-tale prickling in her own eyes. “Oh, no, you're setting me off...”

Gil laughed again and kissed her forehead. “I'm sorry. I had to tell someone.”

“Of course you did.” She took a deep breath, easing away the threat of tears. “I wish I could just drop all this and come and celebrate with you, but -”

“I know. Finish your shift.” He gave her another quick hug. “I'll meet you afterwards.”

By the time Claire was done for the day, it was already dark. Shoppers were still scurrying around the stalls and boutiques of Covent Garden, desperately searching for last minute gifts. The air tasted like frost, and the cold nipped at her nose and ears. She blew onto her gloved hands, trying to trap some warmth between her skin and the fine layer of wool.

Gil was waiting outside the Opera House with a cup of hot chocolate in each hand.

“You're an angel.” Claire accepted one of the drinks and gratefully curled her chilled fingers around it. “Although really I should be buying.”

“You can get the next ones.”

With his free arm he tucked her against his side, and they meandered through the cobbled streets and markets, savouring the slow, lazy wind down to Christmas. Their breath clouded around them as they tried on scarves, tried to solve hand-carved wooden puzzles, and tasted toffee vodka and figgy pudding ice cream. After the hot chocolates they bought roast chestnuts, and stood sharing them in front of a brass band playing 'Silent Night.'

“It's really happening, then?” Claire asked eventually, peeling one of the nuts.

Gil nodded, still looking a little dazed. “It's really happening. I might even dance the summer programme. No solos, not after being out for such a long time, but it's a start.”

“It's amazing.” She linked their arms, rested her head on his shoulder, and added mischievously, “A Christmas miracle. Tiny Tim, all healed up...”

He gave her a playful shove. “What do you want to do tomorrow, anyway?”

“Laze about. Eat cheese. Watch films.” They'd decided against a full turkey dinner, deciding it wasn't worth it just for two, but the fridge was well stocked with cold nibbles and aperitifs. “Maybe go for a walk along the river, or out to Hampstead Heath.” She glanced at the hazy sky. “Weather permitting.”

Between the thin gauze of cloud and the orange glow of London's street lighting, the stars were hidden from view. They weren't forecast to get snow – although if denser cloud set in and the air warmed over the river, they might well be in for fog.

Gil checked his watch. “There's still time for you to catch a train north, if you want to.”

“Are you kidding? Christmas day, just the two of us...it'll be heaven.” In truth she felt a slight pang that she wouldn't see her cousin or her grandmother – but she could go back to Sheffield for a few days in January, when the trains were cheaper, and besides, Harrison would be with them for New Year's Eve. “No arguments, no screaming children, no drunk Dads – and no need to do the washing up until Boxing Day.”

He squeezed her shoulders and helped himself to another chestnut. “As long as you're sure.”

“Yes, Gil, I'm sure.” _As sure as I was when I asked you to move in with me – and when we went on that mad weekend away._

She leaned against his side, relaxing as the peculiar, magical cast of the evening stole through her. It was years since she'd looked forward to Christmas this much. She'd been a child the last time she'd felt so utterly carefree, when she'd had no need to dread the insistent buzz of her Blackberry, and the idea of Christmas spirit hadn't felt like empty words dreamed up by some company's marketing team.

Around them the streets slowly emptied; Claire's feet grew cold in her boots, and the band finished their set list with a rousing 'O Come All Ye Faithful.' Claire and Gil each put a ten pound note in their charity collection box, and their leader – a round, pale faced woman with frizzy grey hair – smiled her thanks. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Claire returned. “Stay warm!”

The woman opened her coat to show them the hip flask stashed in her inside pocket. Claire grinned; Gil laughed outright.

“Maybe I'll try that backstage at our next show,” he chuckled as they wandered home.

“Don't you dare.” Claire elbowed him. “If you ever get injured again because you act like an idiot...”

“Alright, alright!” He held up his hands in surrender, still laughing. “What happened to peace on Earth and good will toward men?”

“That doesn't apply to muppets,” Claire retorted.

But as they walked, and the bells rang out from a nearby church, her turn of phrase meshed in her mind with her earlier comparison of Gil to Tiny Tim. She remembered a film from her childhood, one that she had later watched with Harrison, and a scene that should have been ridiculous and yet never failed to bring a lump to her throat – a green felt frog, dressed in pauper's rags, singing wistfully as the moon rose over the grime of Victorian London.

_“The promise of excitement_  
_ Is one the night will keep_  
_ After all, there's only one more sleep 'til Christmas...”_


End file.
